Yesterday the radio announcer introduced his next selection by saying that the composer had died “at the ripe, old age of” and he named what happens to be my age. I was startled to hear that I am ripe; this sounded as if at any moment I might drop from life’s tree.

But then I began to ponder how good it is to have lived long enough to have some perspective. I was a teenager during the Great Depression. We were poor enough that maintaining the coal bin in Iowa winters was a serious matter. We never missed a meal, but neither did we eat balanced meals. We simply ate what was available. Then as a civilian I experienced World War II, with rationing of sugar, gasoline, tires, and a variety of other items, to say nothing of those products that simply disappeared from store shelves for the duration of the war. Now I live in the period when television makes every political movement or natural phenomenon a shattering crisis.

So what do I know as a “ripe,” old man? I know I am profoundly grateful for the security I have found in Jesus Christ and for the foundation it has given me—whatever the times—for faithful living.